


you do make me hard, but he makes me weak

by carpethefanfics



Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Bipolar Ian, Blowjobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Four years apart, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Ian-centric, Implied Violence, Jealous Ian, Jealous Mickey, M/M, Meaningless Sex, Missing Mickey, Protective Ian, Protective Mickey, Shameless style violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: Ian felt like a fucking prick the next day, but he swallowed that. Sure, some of them were people looking for more than what he was most of the time and most were probably expecting to be treated the way they definitely deserved. But he always made it clear that it was never going to be more than it was- a dark fuck in a darker room while he thought of a man that could be thousands or hundreds of miles away.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764802
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	you do make me hard, but he makes me weak

**Author's Note:**

> Play Be My Mistake by the 1975.

“You never told me what you did after you left that day.”

Ian’s standing in the bathroom with a towel snug around his hips and a toothbrush in his mouth when he thinks about it. Thinks about the years they spent a part and the fact that he hasn’t asked all too much. He got the jist of it, but the fact that Mickey bristled at the conversation made him so curious he could crawl up the fucking walls.

Mickey grunts, the sound of the hot shower spray accompanying the sound of his voice, “Told you. Ended up in a few different spots- even got to Mexico with Iggy for a bit.”

Ian leans back and turns to look at him through the glass doors, “But what were you _doing_?”

From where Ian is standing, he watches Mickey turn off the water and open the door with a smirk, “Well I wasn’t goin’ all fuckin’ official and makin’ a fuck ton of money like you.” Ian rolls his eyes as Mickey strolls toward him to wrap his arms around Ian’s waist, “You wanna tell me more about _that_?”

Ian hesitates. He likes the story he’s spun for Mickey and it’s entirely the truth- he had taken all those pictures, he had submitted them around, had gotten more rejections than he cared to name until he didn’t. What he hadn’t mentioned was just how much of a spiral he went down first.

-

In the beginning he runs. He runs a lot. Focuses on the way his feet hit the pavement, then the asphalt, then the grass. Focuses on the hum in his chest and the heavy way he breathes and the slickness of his skin. Sometimes he blares music because if it’s just loud enough he can ignore the way his mind spins through a cycle of trying to figure out what to do for dinner before it’s out of control and he’s suddenly reliving the innate minutia of his last few hours with Mickey. So, he runs until his legs and his lungs fucking burn; works his way down his usual route, past corners and bars and parks all unfamiliar to his memory. No fear of reliving a life that’s been doused.

It’s one of the biggest reasons he had up and left the southside for a nicer, much less dangerous area of Chicago. That and he’d gotten an advance on some new prints he’d submitted to some up and coming hipster magazine doing a piece of the ins and outs of homelessness in the city. For the most part he enjoyed it. Being able to lock the door and feel the silence; being able to pad to the kitchen and pour a coffee without fear of an empty pot or a screaming child or geriatric doctors performing surgery on his ex-boyfriend’s ass cheek in the middle of the goddamn counter. Yeah, he had definitely needed out of that house.

But the one part, the one counter-productive part of being alone and living alone and isolating yourself that no one really explains before you do it is just how easy it is to fucking lose it.

“What the _fuck_ Ian?”

Her voice comes out like a whispered sigh. She’s defeated and exhausted and hell bent on getting the giant lug of a man wrapped over her shoulder into this stupid apartment before he falls into the arms of someone he definitely shouldn’t. _Would you fuckin stand up straight please_. She’s twisting the keys into the door and trying not to let Ian’s swaying stop her from, but she gets the door open and shuffles Ian inside. _Alright left foot, and now right … I said right Ian, fuck_.

When she finally gets him down the hall and into his bedroom, he flops down face first and she can’t help but sit on the edge of the bed watching over his drunken form. She recalled doing this when Ian was little, running her hand over his forehead, brushing the strands of red hair that laid against this forehead to the side. He had always been so strong. For the her, for their siblings, for their fucked-up parents. And through it all he was unwavering. Even through the diagnosis and the brief complete and utter rejection of this life- he took it in stride. She had never thought it would be **love** that would tear him apart.

Her voice is gentle as her shaky hand rests against his face, “Oh Ian. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this for you.”

She stands and moves towards the door when his voice breaks through the darkness and silence, “Fi-” She turns back to see his green eyes, his face spotted in moonlight through the open curtain, looking up at her, “I wish he never left.”

Fiona’s eyes widen as his head falls back to the pillow, as the sound that is her brother’s voice slurs and breaks, “I hate him.”

In the morning, when he’s standing in front of his bathroom mirror looking at bloodshot eyes and dark circles and a cracked bottom lip that he had no idea how he got, he hates himself too. There’s a bruise under his jaw and a few more littered over his right hand. Still no idea. All he can do is huff, turn on the cold water and splash it over his skin to wake himself up. He’s woken up like this more times in the last few weeks then he can count, no reason to get all bent up over it.

Ever since night at the docks Ian can only think of one annoying moment in time. He’s standing in his childhood bedroom in a red plaid with more freckles flittering across his nose than one can count and he’s looking down at Lip. He can hear his own words rumble across his mind, “Like if we got the alcoholic gene from Frank,” followed closely by Lip’s “Yeah, or the dummy gene from Monica.” Right now, while slamming his hand down to stop the blaring of his alarm, flipping open the lid to his prescription bottle and deeply considering hurling all his insides into the closest toilet, he thinks he takes after them both.

And when he isn’t running away from himself or drowning in the silence of an empty home or beating the fuck out of someone who probably doesn’t deserve it, Ian finds other ways to kill the aching part inside of him that festers and boils and bleeds.

*

His dick is wet and hot surrounded by tight lips and an exuberant tongue. Ian moans low in his throat, chin falling forward to watch his cock delve into the plump lips. His fingers itch to weave into the back of the locks, his other hand busy bracing the wall. A night out at one of the clubs downtown had been exactly what he thought needed. There would be a copious choice of men to take care of him- none with the right blue eyes but enough with the features he needed to get himself off.

He huffs forcing himself deeper into one of the man’s mouth trying to imagine it being Mickey’s mouth as he screws his eyes tighter, as his hips move to fuck into the wet heat. He wonders if Mickey was out doing the same- clubs had never been his scene but Ian always pictures him grinding on man after man, finding Ian’s eyes across the bar with a smirk as they grasp his hip and lick his neck- daring him to crack open their skulls. But that was nothing more than a jealous figment of his imagination- wishful thoughts that Mickey was even still in their city.

His hips snap faster as he recalls the heat behind Mickey’s eyes when he would peer up at him while swallowing his cock further down his throat. “Fuck,” he grunts as unfamiliar hands reach up to play with his balls and scratch his thighs. But he knows he needs something _more_ so he can come.

His mind rolls to imagine the door to the dingy club bathroom swinging open. A sharp inhale- his eyes flickering to upwards- Mickey standing there with his jet-black hair slicked back, and those tight jeans Ian loved so much. He doesn't stop what he's doing, it just drives him on. He keeps his eyes trained on the Mickey in his mind as he watches him fuck the mouth below. Mickey’s eyes narrowing, cheeks reddening, those perfect lips parting as his jaw visibly clenches.

Ian comes so fucking hard that a sharp curse falls from his lips and his head drops back against the brick wall. He thrusts again lazily as the man moans and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to the point of bleeding. By the time he's done, pulling his cock free, the Mickey in his head is gone and his chest is tight. 

“Charlie,” the guy says.

Ian opens his eyes and looks down at the guy still on his knees, vaguely confused for a moment to see blue eyes looking up at him. “Huh?”

“My name is Charlie. You called me Mick.”

Ian bites harder on his cheek and grunts. “Sorry, dude- drunk.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the guy says, pushing himself to stand.

*

All he can think about in the time between working and fucking and working again is moments with Mickey he wishes he could have back. Moments he hadn’t known he would have to cling onto like a goddamn lifeline. Which is why he’d developed this stupid pattern of stepping back through the life he had left behind with the newest lens of one of his cameras. He had this tiny shoebox in the top corner of his apartment under a few extra blankets with faded shots from the first time Mickey had stomped on his heart. But this time, this time when he goes out seeking to relive moments, it’s from the last time Mickey had stomped on his heart.

So, he’s standing outside that stupid fucking bar with the stupid coloured door thinking back to a day nearly five fucking years ago that he wants to remember has much as he wants to forget.

*

Ian had always worn his attractiveness like a badge of goddamn honour. Ever since he was young people have rattled on about it, or he overheard people talking about it, or he was being propositioned because of it.

It had always ended up being a sore spot in more than one of his ‘relationships.’ Either with the men who were eager to claim him or the men who were jealous. And honestly, with most of them, he hadn’t ever cared all that much about whatever insecurity wound them up so tight. Ian was ready to walk off without them; it was their fucking problem. Except, with Mickey.

With Mickey, it was different. 

If he was being really honest, he actually _enjoyed_ it. The fact that Mickey always wanted to mark his neck up; the way he would grip Ian’s hip painfully to pull him close when some guy stared too long. Yeah, Ian fucking **_loved_** it. If Mickey got a whiff of some guy gazing at Ian let alone _touching_ him- well let’s just say his foul mouth was sure to scare them off before his fists ever did.

And whenever he got like that, Ian would be practically aching to jump his bones. He’d push Mickey up against the wall, the door, whatever solid surface he could and kiss him the way he fucking **deserved**. Hands under his thighs, lifting him up to grind their bodies together. Grip his neck, tilt his head, work his mouth open, drag his tongue across Mickey’s. _Hot and dirty_ , the way Mickey liked it. 

But it’s been a long time since they had gotten caught up in a stupid bar fight and sure, Mickey still gets possessive from time to time but honestly, that’s their norm, always has been. People cross the line and Mickey beats them right back over it. What isn't normal however, is the foul burning in Ian’s chest that’s been happening lately. It’s been rising for weeks and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never felt it this bad before. And he can’t really remember ever feeling it so he isn't sure if it’s just the first time he’s actually started _noticing_ people checking Mickey out or if people always have been and they're just more fucking brazen now.

Either way, Ian’s skin had been **_crawling_**.

When they’re out at a bar, when they're walking down the goddamn street, there’s this rage that rises inside him. His body gets tense, his shoulders pull back, and finds himself _hoping_ some idiot will make a move on Mickey just so he can put them in their fucking place.

It’s the reason he’s raging now. Why his body immediately tenses at the words he hears come out of this guy’s mouth while he’s sitting right next to Mickey. He feels himself go from zero to a hundred, but he can’t stop himself. Without giving it a second thought, his brows are furrowed, his eyes are piercing and he’s ripping this guy’s hand from where it barely floats over Mickey’s hip. He’s pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back, his other hand now gripping the front of this guy’s shirt uncomfortably tight. He’s pushing himself in front of Mickey right in this guy’s stupid mug and the man looks _alarmed_. 

People can say what they want about Ian Gallagher being a soft motherfucker but he’s still fucking south side and he’s going to make sure people goddamn _remember_ that, “You wanna say that again?” The guy’s hands raise automatically, and the stuttering almost makes Ian laugh, “Oh- I didn’t realize- I just-” 

Ian releases the guy harshly causing him to stumble back a little bit, “Didn’t realize? Really? How about you fuck off before I put you through a fuckin wall?” Ian watches the guy scramble off, a quick glance at Mickey behind Ian, before Ian’s eyes narrow again and he nearly crashes into another patron while scurrying to the door. He turns back to Mickey himself who’s still leaning comfortably against the bar, an amused look on his face peering up at Ian.

“Fuck was that about tough guy?”

Ian moves his hand to run along the spot where the guy hadn’t even touched before dragging his palm upwards to rest on Mickey’s back. He shrugs his shoulders, “He touched you.”

Mickey’s eyebrows raise slightly, and his hand moves to brush Ian’s hair back from his forehead with a smirk, “ _Jealous_?” Ian smirks, “I been standing right beside you all night, I’m gone five fuckin seconds and that? Disrespectful _fuck_.”

All Mickey does is laugh, shake his head and slam back the rest of his drink. The move further down the bar at some point and Ian’s laughing at some story he can’t quite recall Mickey telling him. But he definitely remembers his hand resting on Mickey’s thigh when he heard the loud slurred voice and the sound of a glass slamming onto a bar top, “Still gunna put me through that fuckin wall faggot?”

Yet, before Ian can turn around Mickey’s up off the high top, “The fuck did you call him?”

“Faggot-” the guy doesn’t even hesitate before lunging at Ian, “just like you.”

He gets his hand wrapped up in the front of Ian’s shirt but, Ian watches Mickey’s fist collide with the guy’s ribs making him keels forward with a grunt, clutching at the pain that’s definitely shooting through his stomach. Then, Mickey’s knee comes up to meet the swift crunch of his nose. Blood spurts on their jeans and the floor as Ian’s eyes shoot open wide in a panic. The guy stumbles back with a loud cry as the bar around them quiets. Mickey’s voice turns icy as he walks over to the guy now crouching to the floor and Ian feels his shoulders tense, “Touch him again and I’ll rip your fucking arms off motherfucker.”

Mickey turns back to Ian with a smirk, “Let’s get out of here. Stupid bar anyway, _The Green Door_ , what kind of fucking name is that?”

They move towards the front door and Ian feels a laugh break through his body as his hand moves to clasp Mickey’s shoulder, “Oh you get to hit the guy, but I can’t?”

Mickey had smiled up at Ian as they broke out onto the sidewalk and Ian had enjoyed the soft heated look in his eye, “It’ll be hard to do what I wanna do to you tonight if you get arrested fucker.”

*

But then his alarm is blaring and there’s a warm body next to him that tells him he got way too fucking loaded last night after taking those new pictures to kick the guy out and the dreamy memory of Mickey in his arms slips the fuck away.

Just like everything else.

They were all mistakes. And that’s all he really wanted them to be.

They were heated nights to quiet the raging thoughts in his head followed by regretful mornings. They would roll up next to him at bar tops, from across dance room floors, with their witty smirks and their flirty touches. Ian had wanted them to save it- he didn’t want to hear it, he wanted to see how much he could possibly drink and bring them back to a hotel room in another city he never really got to see where he could turn out the lights.

They never smelled right when he was working himself down their bodies- too much cologne- and their mouths definitely never tasted the way he needed- most of them didn’t smoke- or whatever else he could count on in those few moments with men who reminded him he wasn’t where he wanted to be. They would want to wrap their arms around him, want him to wrap his arms around them, but all he could bring himself to do was jerk his chin at the door and roll over.

He felt like a fucking prick the next day, but he swallowed that. Sure, some of them were people looking for more than what he was most of the time and most were probably expecting to be treated the way they definitely deserved. But he always made it clear that it was never going to be more than it was- a dark fuck in a darker room while he thought of a man that could be thousands or hundreds of miles away.

They were good for one thing. Making him forget. Well … maybe two. They also got him **hard** , they got him to that brief blissful moment where his mind completely cleared. But they could never do the one thing that would make it all okay again, they never made him _weak_.

-

When Ian flies back to the bathroom and the heated embrace and the wet naked body of Mickey in front of him he feels himself instantaneously relax. He’s not ready to revisit a time when he looked for Mickey in the bottom of a bottle, in every spot they’d ever been, in ever dark wet mouth he’d fucked. So, he smiles, his hands working themselves down Mickey’s wet body to bring his ass and pull him closer, “How about, less talking, more doing.”

Mickey’s eyes narrow in that wonderful way that goes straight to Ian’s cock, “ **Absolutely**.”

_Yeah, definitely weak._


End file.
